powers of observation
by Fribbled
Summary: Film canon. Five times someone should have realised Loki was a jötunn, and once someone did but didn't say boo. Loki's POV, then Sif's, with implied Sif/Loki. Originally written as a prompt for Norsekink on LJ, slightly edited.
1. Chapter 1

Winter in Asgard is a sight to see. The gray clouds scudding across skies blue enough to sting your eyes and bright white snow falling from balcony to terrace to buttress to balustrade of the golden palace as geese call out to each other in their flight - wondrous.

The first snow of the season has been awaited since the last of the leaves have fallen and Thor will not hear any excuses against leaping out the doors to the gardens and into a drift that puffs up crystals at being so riotously disturbed. His golden hair is speckled with ice but his eyes are shining when he looks back to Sif and Loki.

"We have _lessons_," the prince (the sensible one, at least) says even as Sif crows and tackles Thor to the hard, frosty ground. "And Mother will be angry you've ruined your clothes again."

No one listens. Typical. Sighing, Loki walks over to watch bemusedly as the two attempt to strangle one another while laughing like hyenas.

What isn't typical is how _Loki_ bears the brunt of Frigg's harsh scolding on the importance of bundling up properly and how he should be more considerate of his health. Sif and Thor barely receive clucks though they're both huddled and shivering, soaked to the bone but grinning besides.

He isn't even cold.


	2. Chapter 2

If Thor continues to turn to look back and laugh at the cave trolls, they'll never outrun them. And Fandral isn't helping matters either, slowing to stoop, scoop, spin, and sling pebbles at their erstwhile pursuers, calling out insults and grinning past the peach fuzz growing in on his jaw.

Loki makes a mental note to never let Fandral take the lead again. Getting lost in the mountains was bad enough, but the prospect of losing out dinner in his mother's hall to being dinner in a much stonier setting is... Unappetizing. To say the least.

But as the growling grows increasingly louder, Loki can't help but peek back over his shoulder, green eyes wide with how _very_ close the chase has become. If only they'd trip over something - their feet were certainly big enough - the three of them would only need a moment to be well away from any d-

The thought's barely crossed his mind before the troll in the lead slips, face comical as its heels fly into the air before its companions collide and fall over him into a great brown roil of limbs and curses that skids over the ice that Loki doesn't remember running past a moment ago.

"Good luck of them hitting that slippery bit, wasn't it?" Fandral comments after each has caught his breath and sworn not to tell Sif, else she thrash them all. Either for being stupid in the first place or for failing to bring her along with them, one couldn't be sure which.

"Spring does come a sight later in these mountains," Thor says with a shrug and an easy, crinkly eyed smile.


	3. Chapter 3

Whenever the Allfather calls his sons to counsel, he always focuses his speeches about the future of the realm and the well-being of Asgard on Thor. Loki often feels like nothing more than an excess piece of furniture someone's stuck in the way of much important happenings. Something to be noticed, dismissed out of hand, and stepped around in the course of actually accomplishing something worthwhile. He sits there primly and properly and while Thor makes stumbling and quickly rectified replies to their father about a warrior's restraint, Loki has to stop from rolling his eyes as he keeps the proper responses tucked behind his teeth.

He assumes it's because he knows - as he's always known since before he was able to understand, and as the whole of Asgard has known since the princes' infant debut in the grand hall - who will ascend to the throne once Odin has deemed his own time upon it at an end. It's something Loki has been told and has told himself is a fact. It hardly matters which source it comes from or how much it grates, because it always ends with him praying to the Norns for his brother to have some semblance of sense knocked into that thick skull before the day of his coronation arrives.

But Thor is Thor, and things remain as they are. How they've always been. There's hardly a reason to try and complain of it now, when there's nothing to be done of it. The Allfather talks of the kingdom and its various intricacies and Loki tells himself he doesn't care, that he doesn't want to be king, Thor can have it freely and gladly.

But that doesn't explain the strange, unsettled feeling he gets in the pit of his stomach as Odin turns his eye to Loki and speaks solemnly of the harmony of the realms, working together as a whole.


	4. Chapter 4

No one is remotely surprised at Thor's steadily climbing aptitude at combat - drilling and drilling and swearing and more drilling under the steady and watchful eyes of their tutors. He'd been cast from the same mold as his father, they'd say with pride in their voice at the House of Odin and its strength. A warrior born. A fit heir to the throne of Asgard, and one who will in time bring further glory and honor to their land.

Conversely, there was no one who is not thoroughly shocked and scandalized at Loki's budding arcane abilities. The first manifestation of flickering green flames crackling along the princeling's arrows, aiding and aiming and accelerating it toward the target with enough force that the shaft nearly splinters on impact, causes all eyes to fly towards him. His eyes are wide, his mouth slack as he looks down at his hands in shocked wonderment before snapping back to see himself at the center of whispers and poorly veiled pointed fingers.

A part of Loki wonders how Thor can stand the constant notice if it makes one's skin prickle and crawl like this.

Later, most texts he reads - pilfered and perused in hidden alcoves of palace libraries - on matters of magic state that Asgardians as a race are too hot-blooded for the art of spellcraft. Few enough among them are able to stay calmed and coolly detached enough for the exquisite control required for complex enchantments.

All Loki wanted to do was make his father take notice of his marksmanship.


	5. Chapter 5

"How in the name of Hel are you even wearing that right now?" Volstagg groans into the stillness of a summer's noon. "Here I am, seriously considering shaving off my trademark beard, and you're buttoned up to the bells in that bloody tunic of yours!"

"If you've a wish to continue in your pursuit of looking like a pig as well as acting one, please don't allow my wardrobe to dissuade you."

Even Loki's voice is cold and crisp. But such airs are simply routine when he deigns to speak to Volstagg ('with' implies the other party actually has something intelligent to contribute to the conversation). The rotund warrior raises a hand, opening his mouth to retort as the color rises even higher in his cheeks before Sif intervenes, sour and impatient.

"Stop it. It's too damned hot for your bickering, else I'd thump you both."

"Then the heavens save us from your wrath when this fevered weather breaks," Loki replies dryly, eyes flashing impishly and a corner of his mouth not quite twitching up. Not because the threats are idle - Sif has on more than one occasion proven her eagerness to smash skulls amongst her friends as well as her enemies, royalty be damned. He turns a page to continue reading (she'd often tried to keep track of how many different ones he'd simply conjure from a pocket in a spare moment several times before inevitably losing count) and she's about to ask him what's so funny when Thor and Fandral let loose groans of their own. They'd long since given up looking for cooler paving stones to lie on in favor of sprawling out as much as possible and making sun beat a retreat by sheer force of will.

"You should have let them alone," Thor says sourly. "At least then we'd have had a breeze from their waggling tongues."


	6. Chapter 6

Heimdall isn't the only one of the belief that Loki isn't dressed appropriately. But while the guardian seems more concerned with a lack of fur, the warrior maiden is much more worried about a lack of perceptible armor. Fandral had spoken truth earlier - this was no lark to Midgard, nor a picnic in the fields of Álfheimr. They are for Jötunheimr, and when the stupid arse dies from an easily avoidable strike, Sif won't shed a single tear. She doesn't waste crying on rank idiocy.

"Are you even wearing _any _mail under that?"

Loki's response is a long-suffering sigh as he rolls his eyes, and Sif can only tighten her grip on her staff in lieu of his throat before her elder brother activates the Bifröst and sends the six of them hurtling through space. And then she has more pressing matters to occupy her mind than how best to beat the snot out of a particular trickster, no matter how much he may well deserve it.

The tension builds up - unbearably so, really - until Thor reminds them all that he is Thor and predictably unpredictable as the storm clouds he calls down at will. Then it breaks in a shattering note of iron on ice and her blood picks up the familiar tune, accompanied by cold steel hissing through colder air. Her world narrows to the jötunns rushing from all sides as a feral grin spreads across her face and for a while there's nothing else but the strength of her arm and the recoil as she lays into her targets.

Until Volstagg cries out a warning she only half-hears.

Then her eyes flash away from the latest giant under her blades - not to Thor, he's always able to take care of himself, it's as given as the sun rising in the morn, but to Loki. Loki, who is no warrior, never has been, never will be, and damned if she won't say she bloody well told him so if he falls.

But Loki isn't falling, he's lunging - already too overextended to pull back even if he could hear Volstagg over the clamor. Her scalp itches with phantom memories as an ironic smirk tugs at her lips for a moment when he drives the dagger home - he'd always known how to handle his knives well enough. Her hair is more than testament to that.

Then the moment is over and while the giant is struck down by the blow, it's not out by a long shot, and it grabs Loki's arm from where the dagger's caught in its own flesh. The thin leather armor he's wearing crackles and peels away in an instant under the freezing touch and Sif's heart leaps in her throat at the thought of that happening to Loki's skin and his stupidly long, too pale fingers because now how will he go and turn the pages of his blasted and beloved books.

...Except it doesn't.

What should be blackened turns blue, and green eyes widen a fraction that tells everything before Loki starts thinking again and finally finishes the giant off. Sif spears one of her own, trying to take advantage of her distraction, and by the time she looks back at Loki, his arm is bare but pink and warm and normal again. His face is not.

Then Fandral bellows in pain and they've each again more pressing matters to deal with at the moment.

* * *

><p>Later, in the healing room as the Three stare at the fire numbly at news of Thor's banishment, Sif tries to convince herself. What little light there was in Jötunheimr could so easily play tricks on one's eyes, reflecting so off so much ice and snow. It's almost believable, but for how Loki can't stop flexing his wrist and staring at it like a viper coiled to strike and bite at him.<p>

She almost goes to him, asks him what happened, but for once she knows the last prince of Asgard is without the answers this time. So she holds her peace for later as the Warriors Three discuss and speculate and argue about what's to be done about Thor.

And Thor always comes first.


End file.
